Racist potpourri, but not the kind they can smoke.

My finding myself, my life--one protracted act of vandalism wrested upon the world, the countenance of the thoroughfare, as honest as Kevin farting, as honest as Joey running out of gas on the way to second shift at Popeye's--as honest as a broken appendage, the pain and ache reminding you, little friend, tis horrifyingly real.

They were showing the effects of drugs on the body and the perception, in proportion to the effects of reaming one's anus with prison sex; I thought that a frighteningly honest tact on the part of the evangelists, perhaps even too honest.  "My wife is a prophet, too."  Still not convinced.

I was taking to a guru in the pre-dawn, caffeinated beverage, virgin ass cheeks pulsating at the sage words--why, I bet Erin couldn't work up the gumption for such, and who else, but to do things like shooting off the cuff, and no, I was looking for her on GPS, but sitting, virgin sphincter in a sphere of absolute protection, like a "pocketwatch enveloped in cotton", such that I could write an encyclopedia about even deciding to peruse the philosophy, "Ipkiss's Razor", rather than even broaching the surface like dragonfly on the surface of Walden Pond.

Talking Joseph and democracy, Erin has dickfist, save for utter race to ruin, and ruin in a racial lens, burning too much gas, par for the course, of course, and the other side, with the mystery oil baron deals, and so forth, raking the Democrats over the coals, and this mystical word democracy the bureaucrats and their entourage browbeats with that word, "democracy"; they've worked at it, the Trump news hours and all, pulling us away from other important matters, while the Trump support staff gets Jesus financially when its time to pay the bills, and only then, in the final two weeks, "we've suddenly become fiscally responsible", they say, black and purple rubberized dildoes wobbling above their heads, in the air, with a kind of pride that only the unrecoverably stupid can pull-off to effect.

She leaves Coop a great bowl of nothing in the way of an "opening act", feigning honestly a sub-term course in Government, or, if Trump did something illegal AGAIN, a course maybe in American Government, and I begin to wonder if she actually buys her own consumer goods, like the Democrats, losing absolutely any identification with the shrinking middle class, and the fact that the middle class hates the democrats is perhaps good enough reason to destroy them and put all the middlers into hopeless debt, buying expensive Asian cellphones that pay a dividend to the top 5 percent of the California democrat elite.

Russia watches and laughs, mayhap, and I change the channel and get on about my business, my watches and notions and all sorts of other things.  I buy a 1.25 pack of baseball cards in hope of getting a 17 dollar card that I can flip on Ebay, and I watch them contort too; and we all spiral into a fractalized chaos with the bullhorn of democrat talking points going on, and I'm just waiting for Taylor Swift to split the audience by talking politics: as I advised the staff at my church, that talking politics usually means you lose about half your crowd, "they're for the ni**ers" and all that, and the good old boys--and beyond that, the only real cowboy I ever knew had big mean dogs and donkeys, too, mules.

He was unashamedly gay for his mules.

I reminded me of Clint Eastwood's film, "Flags of our Fathers", where the night lasts a might too long between the assembled marines, and the nonesuch comes forth without even the dignity of a distinguishing light, such that, "any port in a storm", even Natalie Portman, pin-stuck, pinioned to the eastern soil like a starfish, the dim barkspangle of assblood, a tick of it, bought with a tremendous effort of flapping the skin about, and Clint, like he told, we was winning the war, and you look around the Pacific theater, and they're didn't seem to be many ni**ers at all.

"Straight Out Of Black Folks In The Pacific Theater".

"You people need to hit the beach."  Lol.  "You people?!?".

Unless you count Charles Bronson.

Chaos Theory and Conflict Theory, reconfigurations and jitterbugs in the alignments, and me just sitting there thinking they don't even care in the long run, as Sahdguru says, "you're not spinning the world; why constipate yourself?"

I have a dang to give, I suppose, as perhaps a curse on my soul.